


Wishful Thinking

by zxullymaxwell



Series: Remember-Me-Not [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive John Winchester, Angst, Child Abuse, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, Gen, Hurt Dean, Hurt No Comfort, John Winchester's A+ Parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-19
Updated: 2016-04-19
Packaged: 2018-06-03 07:26:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6602068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zxullymaxwell/pseuds/zxullymaxwell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Dean and Sam separate, Dean is left alone with his memories, not of hell, but of his father. Can Castiel help mend the pieces before Dean breaks?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wishful Thinking

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first work posted here. I previously posted on FF.net, but I somehow didn't feel comfortable posting it there. I hope you like it. Please review. 
> 
> Please, check the tags. If abusive!John and child abuse in general bothers you, maybe you should stay away. Just a warning. 
> 
> I'm not a native speaker, so if you stumble upon any errors, please let me know.

He feels the bone snap.

God, it hurts.

He doesn't dare to look down on it, he doesn't dare to move. He knows it's going to hurt even more after he sees the damage done to his body.

So he just lays there. He lays there and waits for help.

But he knows help isn't coming. Not the help anyone in his situation would eventually hope to get.

He blacks out and wakes up in the motel room, his little brother and father by his side.

“Thank god,” says John; his voice is cold and unforgiving. “What have you gotten yourself into, son?”

“I...,” Dean tries to remember. “I think I was playing soccer and got attacked from behind. Stumbled on the ground,” he says and slowly looks down at his forearm. “My arm... It hurts a lot.”

“Yes, it's broken. Good thing, too,” John says absentmindedly, then turns his focus to his younger son. Sam looks at him with those big, innocent eyes of his. He's twelve. He hasn't done any actual hunting yet, but he helps with research and theoretical stuff. He also patches up their wounds after they get back from the hunt and he probably realizes what he has to do to Dean. “Well, it's probably gonna bother you a little during our next hunt, but Sammy here has to learn.”

“Dad, I don't think it's a good idea,” Sam says very quietly. “Maybe we should take Dean to a hospital?”

"Nonsense, boy,” John brings over a med kit and puts it on the table by the bed. “You need to learn how to set bones and how to make a cast. You can't trust hospitals, it's the first place everybody is going to look for you after something happens to you or your brother.”

He pauses, then looks menacingly at Dean. “Of course if Dean doesn't screw up, you won't have to go to the hospital, because nothing will happen to you.”

“But Dad-”

John raises his hand and Sam stops talking. Dean just stares at them, terrified. He probably wouldn't trust a doctor to set his arm bone, all the more a twelve-year-old. But he bites his lip, because he knows it has to be done. Sam has to learn. Deep down inside he knows it's not going to be the first time Sam sets his broken bones and puts a cast on them.

Sixteen-year-old Dean doesn't know that Sammy actually sets the bone very poorly and it's going to hurt and bother Dean for the next years until another hunting accident requires him to go the hospital and get his arm re-broken, set and put in a cast again. Sam doesn't know it's going to bother Dean and he never finds out.

Just like he doesn't find out about Dean's scars, how some of them could've been almost non-existent if the wounds were stitched then by someone experienced.

But dad insists. Every hunting accident, every school fight, he insists that Sammy cares for his brother's wounds. He has to learn how to do that.

And Dean has to learn how to keep Sam safe from getting hurt even if it means he gets hurt instead. _Especially_ if it means he gets hurt instead. Dean is a soldier. He's a grunt. He has been trained like a soldier ever since he rescued his six-months-old brother from a burning house.

It was not John's concern that Dean was not even five when he started his training. It was not John's concern that Dean used to have nightmares about his mother dying in flames. It was not John's concern that Dean couldn't sleep and needed someone to tuck him in, to read him a story. That he needed to be a child, because he was only five years old. John didn't – and doesn't – care about any of that.

Sam prepares the med kit nervously, his hands are shaking. John just pats him on the shoulder, encouraging him.

When Sam tries to set Dean's broken bone for the first time, Dean wakes up with a scream.

* * *

Dean actually finds it funny that everybody expects his nightmares to be about his time in hell. Bobby's asked him about it multiple times, so did Sam, so did Ellen and Jo. They seemed to have forgotten that he had all kinds of nightmares before he even sold his soul to the crossroads demon.

Sure, his time in hell had been terrifying. Despite his own physical torture and the pain, he will never forgive himself that he turned into a monster himself. But he got past that. He accepted the fact that he didn't have any other choice and dealt with it. It isn't the first thing Dean can't forgive himself and it's not gonna be the last.

What he can't deal with is his childhood. He never could. How could one deal with nightmares that weren't exactly nightmares, but memories, relived over and over again for more than twenty years of his life?

Surprisingly, he doesn't dream often about Sam dying that day. He dreams sometimes, but even his subconscious seems to understand that he did everything he could to keep Sam alive then. His conscience is clear.

He gets out of bed and pours himself a shot of whiskey. He's alone in a motel room, somewhere in the middle of nowhere. Sam's probably mixing drinks somewhere right now and doesn't care about his screw-up of a brother and his loneliness and hunting. He's right, too. He had the right to bail. Again.

After all, dad never wanted this kind of life for Sammy. He wanted Dean to protect him, even if it meant being alone and handling _family business_ by himself. They both know Dean could easily get killed with no backup, but Dean doesn't expect Sam to care about him. He had tried doing that in the past a couple of times, but the fact remains – Sam hadn't been raised as the selfless type. Sure, the stitching and bandaging, he was great at that. But that's it. Sammy was raised to think about himself.

He rubs his palm along the forearm that Sam had set that day. There's no scar, since all scars have been removed when Castiel brought him back. Dean actually thought for a couple of days that maybe the angel removed the mental scars, too, along with the physical ones, since for the first couple of nights Dean didn't have any nightmares. Just nice, peaceful dreams.

He was wrong, of course.

After finishing his shot of whiskey, he debates not going back to sleep, but decides he needs his rest. He's going to have to endure ten hours of driving in the morning and he needs to be at least a bit rested.

Reluctantly, he lays his head on the pillow and slowly closes his eyes, hoping and praying under his breath that the nightmares would leave him alone, that he would get at least a half an hour of peaceful sleep.

How he hopes.

* * *

 

The knife is sharp. Dean can feel its tip piercing his skin and he can feel its cold blade sliding slowly down his leg.

He inhales sharply and bites the inside of his cheek to stop himself from screaming. The movement of the knife is slow, painful, meticulous. The person doing it doesn't care for the pain they're causing.

“Dad, stop-”, Sam says, wiping at his eyes. Dean notices in surprise that his own face is wet with tears he cannot stop. His hands are gripping the edges of the chair so tight that his knuckles turn white. “I think it's enough.”

John nods and puts the knife away. The blood is now running freely down Dean's leg and he leans down, hoping to try and stop the bleeding. There is a catch in his throat he can't control and he can't see everything through his tearful eyes. He leans back on his chair and puts the leg up on the table to slow down the bleeding.

John hands Sam the curved needle, alcohol, surgical thread, bandages and a tourniquet.

“Hurry up, boy,” he says impatiently. “When you're fighting demons, they just slash along the vein, so he's going to be losing a lot of blood every second.”

He explains the movements Sam has to make to put sutures on his brother's leg.

Sam is looking Dean in the eyes. “Are you okay, big brother?”, he asks in a small voice. He's ten years old. He's petrified. His bottom lip is trembling; so are his hands.

Dean quickly wipes his face and his nose. “I'm fine, Sammy,” he says, his voice harsh and filled with pain. “Just hurry up. It hur-”

John sends him a dangerous look. Dean gulps and says quickly, “It hurts to keep my leg so high”.

Dad nods in approval and hands his fourteen-year-old a glass with a bit of whiskey. “Drink this, it'll ease the discomfort.”

The teenager downs the glass and shudders, preparing himself for what's coming next...

And then, just like that, Dean is sitting on the hood of the Impala in the middle of the night, looking up to the night sky. He looks to his left, expecting to see Sam next to him.

To his surprise, he sees Castiel.

“Cas? What are you doing here? Why are you invading my dreams again?”, he frowns at the angel.

“I needed to contact you and you weren't picking up your phone, so I figured it would be the next best thing,” the angel answers and Dean remembers now that he left his phone in the Impala and that's why he didn't hear it.

Dean just sighs. Of course. It's not like Cas simply wanted to spend time with him.

He gives Castiel the name and address of the motel and the room number.

Then he wakes up.

* * *

 

He figures sleeping isn't meant for him that night. Sleep is for losers. Although don't trust those stupid bastards who say that they'll sleep when they're dead. Dean had been there and he can tell you with all certainty that sleeping is the last possible thing on your mind when you're dead.

He doesn't even have to turn around to know that Castiel appeared by the window. The soft swoosh of wings and a familiar scent of ozone filling the tiny room are enough for him to know.

“What do you want, Cas?” Dean asks, sitting on his bed and slowly putting on his boots with his back still turned to the angel. He doesn't turn around, doesn't give the angel any sort of greeting.

He raises his head and sees Cas standing right in front of him, looking down at the man with an expression on his face that Dean can't really place. It seems Castiel is in pain, so he raises his eyebrows and eyes the angel top to bottom looking for signs of possible injuries. “Are you hurt?”

“ _I_ am not,” the angel replies softly, putting emphasis on the first word. Dean breathes out the breath he didn't even realize he's been holding.

“What do you want, then?”, he asks again, standing up and looking Castiel in the eyes. The angel looks away and that same pained expression crosses his face.

“I... I wanted to check up on you,” he says very slowly, as if not entirely sure if that was what he wanted to say.

“Why?”

Castiel's head snaps up. Now he looks almost offended. “You are my friend. Aren't friends supposed to check up on each other?”, he asks, genuinely surprised.

Dean chuckles. “Yeah, they are. But I thought you had more important things do to than hang around my pitiful self,” he shrugs. “You always do.”

He feels bad for saying that last sentence and he can see it stung Cas just a little bit when the angel tenses and looks away again.

That's okay, Dean tells himself. Can't have Cas liking him and Dean liking him back (too late for that, but Dean can try and force himself). Sam tried liking his brother and look how it worked out for him. Dean can't let himself be attached to anybody, because it always ends the same way – they leave him or hurt him, or both. Or they die. And he's got enough nightmare material for three lifetimes as it is.

The silence is heavy between them when Dean puts on his clothes. Castiel just stands there to the side, watching him intensely, his face tense and his eyes almost too sad. Dean tries his best not to look at him; there's something in Castiel's face that terrifies and amazes him at the same time.

The older Winchester sighs loudly and finally looks at Cas. For a moment they're just standing there, looking each other in the eyes; the tension almost palpable. Then Dean smiles, looks away and, trying his best to keep his voice level, says, “You have got to stop giving me these bedroom eyes, Cas, you know.”

Castiel doesn't flinch, doesn't look away, just shifts his weight and sighs, still staring straight at Dean. “Can I ask you a question about your dreams?”, he says finally with a voice so soft that Dean thinks for a moment that Jimmy is back, since Castiel's voice was almost always grave and deep like grief.

“No, you cannot,” Dean answers sternly. He then grabs his bag, his leather jacket and car keys and leaves the room.

Castiel doesn't go after him.

* * *

 

This time he's not dreaming. This time he's remembering, clear as day, the time when Sam run off in Flagstaff.

Dean is sitting on the hotel bed, his head and stomach hurting. The cut on his leg made by his father almost faded away and Sam took out the stitches the day before yesterday. That was the last time Dean ate anything. Seven days ago their dad left for a hunt and promised to return in two days, leaving the boys with only a couple days worth of food supplies.

Dean clutches at his abdomen and rolls over to the side. Sam is sitting on his bed, reading a book, but gets up when he hears Dean groan in pain.

“What's wrong, Dean?”, he asks, worried.

He doesn't know that Dean hasn't been eating. He doesn't know it isn't the first time Dean was prepared for his dad to be gone longer than he promised and rationed their food in such way that Sam would always have three meals a day. Sam doesn't know Dean doesn't eat each and every time their father is away, because he's afraid there might not be enough for Sam.

But this time, this time, Dean can't take it anymore. His head is pounding and he feels so weak he's afraid he's going to pass out.

“Dean, what's wrong?”, Sam's voice raises nervously and he grabs his brother's shoulder, trying to turn him on his back.

Dean considers his options. Option one – he doesn't get up and just dies here in the motel bed. This seems tempting, but he'd have to leave Sammy without food; so that's not really an option. Option two – he somehow gets up and goes to the store. This one seems the most reasonable, buth when he tries to lift his head from the pillow, he sees stars in front of his eyes. He just can't move. He can barely breathe.

There is only one option left and he knows he can't wait any longer than that.

He takes in a deep, shuddering sigh and, using all of his strength, he grabs Sam's shoulder, sits up on the bed and looks Sam in the eye. His younger brother is staring at him, panic visible on his face.

“Sammy,” he whispers. “I need you to do something, but you have to promise me one thing. You will never tell dad about it.”

“Of course!”, Sam grips Dean's arm, helping to keep him up.

“I need you to take some cash and go to the store. You need to buy something to eat. We don't know when dad is gonna come home and I don't feel good.”

He feels terrible in fact. He shouldn't be asking this of Sam. He should just crawl out of bed and go to the store himself, even if it meant dying in the process. But he just can't. Just once, he needs someone to take care of him, to pity him, to see that he's doing everything he can. Just once, he needs to let go. Tomorrow Dean is gonna be strong and protective, tomorrow he's gonna do everything he can for his brother.

Sam doesn't say anything and then Dean hears the door shut. Everything is dancing in front of his eyes, so he lays down again and closes his eyes.

Half an hour later Sam spoon-feeds him some instant soup and crackers and Dean can almost cry in relief as his empty stomach fills with warm liquid. He's still very weak and his hands are trembling, but at least his head stopped hurting. Through half-closed eyelids he sees Sam sitting next to him, watching his closely.

“Dean,” he starts slowly. “I have to do something, okay? Please, don't be mad at me. I bought you a lot of food, you're going to be okay while dad is gone.”

Dean doesn't like the sound of what Sam is saying, but before he can say anything, Sam is gone.

For the first forty or so minutes Dean thinks that Sam just left for a walk or went to a store. He knows it's not the first time either of them needed a break from one another. He's too weak to be mad at his younger brother.

After an hour, Dean becomes frantic. His stomach doesn't hurt so much anymore and he's much more conscious. He gets up from his bed and his gaze falls upon a pile of groceries on the table. Next to them there is a small note, written in Sam's childish handwriting.

_Dean,_

_I need to be alone for a couple of days. Don't worry, I'm going to be safe._

_I'll be back before Dad gets home._

_Sam_

* * *

 

He shakes his head to focus on the road again. It's one of his worst memories. Sam disappearing on him like that, even though he claimed he was going to be okay, is Dean's worst nightmare. After all he did to keep the boy safe, he just left the first moment he could.

And when John got home...

Dean curses under his breath. He knew it was going to turn out like this. Every time he started thinking about his childhood, there was no stopping it. In the past there had been days and weeks when he just couldn't get out of bed, tormented by those memories. When he and Sam joined forces and started looking for dad together, the nightmares toned down a little bit, they became less frequent, because they were building their own memories now, without John and his twisted sense of righteousness.

But now Sam is gone again, so his nightmares roam free.

And he knows he just has to sit and suffer through it and drink himself into obliviousness.

Alone.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It hurt me a lot to write this story. It needed to be written and it probably will not be the end to Dean's suffering. I feel very strongly about John and how he treated his kids, especially Dean.


End file.
